


Amiguis

by laratoncita



Series: To Live & Die in LA [9]
Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Cousins, Dysfunctional Family, Gangs, Gen, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-24 00:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: Diaz women don't like Oscar much. Good thing his tía's not one of them.





	Amiguis

**Author's Note:**

> luv a bad bitch who thinks oscar diaz aint shit *crazy eyed emoji* we are out here!

The fifth thing he does after getting released—one, see the ocean; two, see Cesar; three, see his PO; four, see Claudia—is go looking for his tía Alejandra. He finds his cousin instead.

“A ver, pri,” Vero says when she catches sight of him standing in the kitchen doorway—they always leave their doors unlocked, seem to think Chucho is man enough to protect them. Like the specters of their fathers, Cisco in jail and Mateo dead almost as long, aren’t really what does it. Like the Diaz name isn’t a curse around these parts.

She’s on her knees scrubbing at some stain on the kitchen floor, hair held back with a red bandana. Looks different, compared to the last he saw her, about sixteen and with an attitude almost as bad Cuchillos’ daughters had. Older and younger all at once, like Oscar’s looking into a mirror. Just another Diaz who never made it out of Freeridge.

Vero raises an eyebrow, says, “Shit, but you got ugly in jail.”

“Figures you on your knees like always, huh,” Oscar says, like an instinct. Remembers how the two of them would throw barbs at each other, how nasty she got once she hit high school. Almost like they were never close to begin with, back when they were maybe ten and thirteen, younger, even. She used to call him _mano_ and mean it. It doesn’t sting, not that he’ll ever admit otherwise.

She bares her teeth in something like a grin, says, “Sí, güey, it even gets me dinner sometimes.” She stands up, yellow rubber gloves on, socked feet in a pair of ratty old Adidas slides. “When’d you get out?”

“They ain’t tell you?”

She raises an eyebrow. “You think I care?”

He sets his jaw. “Chucho around?”

“He’s never around,” she says, drops the trapo in her hand back into the bucket at her feet. Pulls off the gloves and turns her back on him. Remembers when she used to watch him real suspiciously, eyes narrowed whenever he’d come around looking for Chucho and her mom just as often. She was probably twelve or thirteen, back then. That’s probably when she started hating him. “What, he ain’t gone to see you yet? C'mon. I know you’re here to see my mom.”

“Ain’t seen her in a minute,” he says. Remembers how she used to send Chucho over with groceries, sometimes, when they were still in middle school. How she once came to the house and scrubbed it clean and pretended not to notice his mom was gone, and then, when she finally showed up, whooped her ass in the kitchen while the four of them—Chucho, Vero, Oscar and Cesar—sat out back pretending not to hear the screams.

She visited him most often, that last year he was locked up. Kept saying she was praying for him. All his general nastiness meant he asked if she did the same when his uncle was still smacking her around, and sometimes he still wakes up sweating from the way her eyes would go blank. Remembers Chucho with his arm in a cast, remembers Vero with her curiously flat mouth and eyes and down-turned head. The Diaz men have that in common. It’s not the only thing, unfortunately.

“She’s at work,” Vero says, still frowning. She washes her hands, says, “Some of us have jobs, sabes.”

“Y tú que, nena?”

“Don’t call me that,” she says, rolling her eyes, “I don’t work Thursdays. Mind your business.”

“When’s she get home?”

“Eight,” she says, “like always.”

His tía’s been cleaning houses for what seems like forever. Up before the sun and back home after it. Vero, before he got locked up, regularly went with her to help out, he remembers. He says, “Where you work now?”

“Why?” She crosses her arms. Looks ten again instead of twenty.

“You miss me at all,” he drawls, already knowing by the way her face screws up that it’s a resounding no. Funny, how excited most of these girls have been to see him. He knew better than to expect it from Vero, though.

“You really here to see my mom or are you just being nosy?” she demands. He tilts his head. She has the same expressions she had as a kid—of course she does. Throws him off, though, to see her like this instead of sixteen. The way she looks more like his uncle, now. 

“This is Santos territory, ain’t it,” he says, slouched against the doorway, “‘s only right that I check it out, pri.”

“Locked up for four years and you back on your bullshit,” she says, unimpressed, “you lying to your PO already?”

“‘Course not,” he says, “I ain’t done shit this week but sleep.”

She raises an eyebrow. Doesn't believe him, like usual. She was always the smartest Diaz, except for maybe him.

“Nice hickey,” she deadpans, and when his hand flies up to his neck she snorts. “These rucas got no taste.”

“I was never running ‘round with hoodrats,” he says, which is a lie, but he feels the need to defend Claudia anyway. “I went to see my girl.”

Vero raises an eyebrow. “What girl?”

“The one I was with before I got locked up.”

She blinks at him. “Are you kidding me?” she says. Something like bemusement on her face. “Didn’t you dump her ass?”

He scowls, “Who told you that?”

“Adrian mentioned it,” she says, haughty. Rubs her jaw against her shoulder. The two of them always got along too well for Chucho’s comfort. Didn’t matter that they weren’t related, Adrian from Oscar’s mom’s side and Chucho and Vero from his dad’s. Made folks uncomfortable, anyway. “Thought she left town.”

“She’s a teacher.”

“And she still fucked you?” Vero says, face screwed up, “Pobrecita. You ruined her, huh.”

“Watch it,” he says, sharp, and her face turns mean.

“You in _my _house, g,” she snaps, “I’m not some fucking kid, I don’t gotta deal with you if I don’t want to.”

“Whatchu gonna do?” he says, tilting his head. Voice too calm for Vero—he can see it in the way her jaw goes tight, lips pursed. She looks like Cesar used to, when he was little and would pout. He can’t describe the shock at seeing him fourteen already. He still looks like their mom. “Call the cops ‘cause I pissed you off?”

“You know the cops don’t show up around here,” she says. All that bitterness coming back up. She breathes in, deep, rubs her face with both hands. “Christ. You here ten minutes and manage to piss me off.”

“You’re always mad,” he says. She gives him a look like she can’t believe him.

“Like you ain’t?” she says, “Christ. Go home, Oscar. I’ll tell my mom you came by.”

“She still get Fridays off?”

“Yeah,” she says. Sounds tired, suddenly. “Come by for breakfast.”

He swallows. Straightens up from his slouch. Thinks of how she used to cling to him when they’d go bike-riding, the three of them with two bikes. She used to hop on the back pegs and they’d go flying down the block, nearly busting their shit every time they hit a pothole. She used to actually like him, he thinks. He knows what it changed, but it’s—something to think about. Or acknowledge, at the very least. “You actually gonna tell her I came by?”

“Yeah,” she says. She looks resigned. To Oscar, maybe, or just what her life’s turned out to be, considering she’s still in Freeridge, too.

He nods. Says, after a little hesitation, “You didn’t tell me where you work.”

She rolls her eyes, but she might be hiding a smile. He doesn’t think she’ll ever grow out of being a mocosa. Says, “Walgreens. I fucking hate it.”

“Retail,” he says. “Sucks.”

“You ain’t had a real job in your life.”

“Nope,” he says. Spins on his heel, says, “Good seeing you, Vero.”

“Lie again,” she shouts at his back. “You better show up tomorrow! Make my mom cry again and I’ll kill you.”

“Right,” he says. Knows she probably would. Wonders if it’s a _her_ thing, or just another way they’re still alike.

* * *

His tía has huevos rancheros, sliced avocado, and a side of refried beans ready for him when he walks in the next morning. She hugs and kisses him like he’s her son, even, not that Oscar’s ever seen her do the same to Chucho. Maybe his eyes sting, just a little bit. Vero, in a PINK t-shirt and athletic shorts, scoffs.

“No seas mala,” her mom says, spinning around and brandishing a wooden spoon at her. “You’re too old to be acting like this.”

“Okay,” she says, sour, and takes a bite of her own breakfast, smothered in more salsa than Oscar’s. Once, when they were kids—it had to have been right before Oscar joined the Santos—Chucho dared her twenty bucks to eat a jalapeño in one bite and she did it without having to chug a glass of milk afterwards. Cesar thought she was the coolest thing on earth for about two weeks, and then Oscar bought him an over-sized dog plushie for his birthday and he went right back to being the kid’s favorite.

“What time you work today?” he asks Vero. She looks half-awake still, has a cup of what smells like Nescafé in her grip.

“Eleven,” she says, monotone, and tilts her head back while she chugs her coffee. Classic Vero, he thinks, as if he even knows her anymore.

“Mijo,” his tía starts, and his eyes sting again. She’s not even his aunt by blood—wasn’t married to his uncle, even if they lived in the same house and had two kids together. Didn’t matter that Mateo was as bad as his brother, either. Alejandra would show up on weekends and take all four of them to the park, bouncing Cesar on her hip like he was her kid. Folks used to forget they weren’t all hers. And she doesn’t even seem to resent Oscar like Vero does about Chucho. Maybe she gets it, too. “Cómo has estado?”

“Bien, tía,” he lies. This is the best food he’s had in ages. Can’t believe he’s been out of jail all of five days already, either. It feels like more and less all at once.

Vero takes a pointed bite of her eggs. Smiles, teeth white against her skin, when he raises an eyebrow at her.

“Go shower,” his tía says, catching sight of her daughter, “you hair’s greasy.”

“Ma,” Vero squawks, “are you—”

“Vete,” she says, shakes her head while smiling when she listens. She pulls her half-eaten plate close to her, after, finishes what Vero didn’t. “De verdad, Oscar.”

“I just got back,” he says, like he ain’t been fielding phone calls already, “what’s there to say?”

Her eyes are too knowing. Always have been. “How you feeling?”

“Good,” he says, and means it this time. “It’s been. Good. Being home.”

“Mm,” she says, “is that house a home? No sé.” She lifts her hands up, smiles a little. “How’s Cesar? He came over a lot.”

“He’s good, too,” he says, even if the kid’s quieter than he’d like, “he didn’t give you no trouble?”

“Nada,” she says, “he’s always been a good kid, sabes esto, Oscar. Good like you was, too.”

“Not anymore, huh?” he says, tries to grin. She looks at him real sadly.

“You made some mistakes, mijo,” she says, “that don’t mean that’s all you are.”

“Tía,” he says. Stops. Looks down at his plate. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“De nada, mi amor,” she says like a sigh. She touches his shoulder. “Siempre será tu casa.”

A home despite everything, Oscar knows. The spots on the wall where he can see someone had to replace a hole, the scar near her temple from when Mateo slammed her against a table, old pictures of Chucho and Vero before anyone started running with the Santos. He likes it better than his house, it’s true. But a Diaz house is a Diaz house no matter how it’s dressed up. He’s not sure his tía knows that, or if she’s just trying to pretend.

He helps her clean up the kitchen despite her objections, finishes up as Vero comes back into the kitchen, dress shirt on with a pinstriped vest over it.

“You look dumb as hell,” he says, and she makes a face. 

“Ma,” she says, “you hear what he’s saying?”

“Be nice,” his tía says, even as she hides a smile behind her coffee, “ya te vas?”

“Yeah,” she says, grabbing her purse, and then, “does the car have gas?”

“I can take you,” Oscar offers. Doesn’t really think it through, tries to ignore the look of distaste on Vero’s face and the appreciation on his tía’s. “Which one you work at?”

“The one on Western,” Vero says, flat, clearly wanting to say no. She pointedly avoids looking at her mother.

“Out there? Shit,” and he flinches, says, “sorry tía.”

She raises an eyebrow, says, “Ya se deben ir, entonces.”

“Yeah,” Vero says again, scowling, “c’mon,” and Oscar bends at the waist to let Alejandra kiss him goodbye.

“You running late o qué,” he says to Vero outside, watches as she climbs into his car while shaking her head.

She says, still frowning and looking all the younger for it, “I coulda driven myself.”

“Next time you can walk.”

“Homie,” she says, eyebrows screwed up, “I can _drive_.”

“You couldn’t last I saw you.”

“I fucked up my driving test _once_,” she says, crossing her arms like she did yesterday, “and none’a you muthafuckers let me forget it.”

“You talk real ugly now, sabes.”

“Y tú qué, cabrón?”

“I’m grown,” he says, and she snorts.

“Whatever,” she says. “I meant it, you know. Hurt my mom again and I’ll kill you.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Whatever the fuck you’d say to her when she’d visit…” She cuts herself off. Bites the inside of her cheek like if she doesn't she'll throw hands at him. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yup.” It’s not the first time she’s called him one. Probably not the last either. He can’t even say it hurts to know she’s telling the truth; this is just how it is, now. How it’s been for a while.

She tilts her head. Says, real considering, “Still driving me to work, though.”

He shrugs. Tries not to think about it too much—he’s always been a sucker for giving a lot of people rides. Not fellow Santos, necessarily, not even girls he was trying to get with. Just. Folks he knew who needed it. “It’s. Whatever.”

“Okay,” Vero says, a little too knowingly. Doesn’t say anything else until they’re in front of her store, when she unbuckles and then pauses. Looks at him. “Glad your back, pri,” she says. Says it like she’s being honest for the first time in awhile. Like her mom, Oscar can see it in her eyes.

Oscar stares at her for a minute. Imagines her at eleven again, snaggle-toothed and grinning at him over some dumb shit they got up to. Before even more of life’s bullshit got to him. When he’d call her hermana, too.

He offers her a fist bump, and she laughs for real, smiling like she didn’t spend years telling him she hated him every chance she could. Oscar thinks she’s in the right, even. She knocks their knuckles together anyway.

“Call me if you need a ride home,” he says, and she rolls her eyes.

“I won’t.”

“I know,” he says, but grins right back at her, anyway.


End file.
